


End of the Curve

by doctor_not_your_girlfriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: COVID-19, Disabled Character, Gen, Major Illness, Medical Realism, One Shot, Optimism, Recovery, Trigger Warning - Needles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23554876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_not_your_girlfriend/pseuds/doctor_not_your_girlfriend
Summary: July, 2021. Mycroft has a special delivery for Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 107





	End of the Curve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [J_Baillier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/gifts), [elldotsee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Proving A Point](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18826798) by [elldotsee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee), [J_Baillier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier). 



"There," John says, pressing the plaster firmly to the small puncture on Sherlock's hip. "That's that, then." Reverence renders his voice a bit shaky, as he doesn't quite know how to mark the occasion, other than knowing he should. He pulls up Sherlock's pyjamas to his waist for him and disposes of the needle in the container at his feet with a soft plunk. John scoots closer to the head of the bed, meeting his alert gaze.

"D'you think it'll scar?" Sherlock asks in a low rumble. "Like the BCG?" John shrugs.

"I wouldn't mind a little divot on your bum," he replies with a smirk. "Small price to pay, after all." Sherlock hums and rolls slightly to one side, pressing against Arthur's sturdy weight at his back. His leg gives a jerk and John's hand shoots out, gripping Sherlock at the shoulder.

"Nothing but a spasm," Sherlock remarks. "Same as from any other jab." John looks suspicious. "For God's sake, John, I am not _anaphylactic_."

"I'm to watch you for thirty minutes," John replies, hating the note of mother hen that creeps into his tone. "If I'm going to be injecting you with dodgy vials delivered by _MI-bloody-six_ , I'm following the sodding directions."

 _Can Sherlock really blame me for acting this way?_

After eighteen harrowing months, this is how it finally ends, with a syringe delivered by a sleek black car. 

John had steadfastly refused Mycroft's offer when he had, as he had dramatically put it, "procured the key to Sherlock's freedom." John couldn't bear the thought of depriving anyone else of the potentially lifesaving vaccine. He only acquiesced a few days later when the news broke it would be available on the NHS by the end of the week.

So here it was. Not an end to the hand-washing or avoiding ill people of course, given the state of Sherlock's lungs, but an end to the isolation from their friends and from each other, an end to the worry of another round of sheltering-in-place, all-night sirens filling London's streets, ambulances lined up down the block, triage, bad news, more bad news.

John himself was immune. He'd come down with it relatively early, before they had enough personal protective gear for everyone at A&E, before it was clear what they were really dealing with. He'd already been staying apart from Sherlock at that point to protect him, sharing a flat near the hospital with another physician in the same situation, a vulnerable partner.

He had started feeling poorly and spiked a fever later the same day, apparently delivering a delirious ramble to his husband over the phone. It was a desperate Sherlock who had called 999 and had to wait at 221B for any news, to hear John was admitted for oxygen treatment, had gone on to need the high-flow. He'd not been allowed any visitors, of course, too contagious. Eventually John turned a corner, was sent back to his borrowed flat to recover. Only after weeks of isolation and a thorough battery of tests was he allowed home to Baker Street, reunited with Sherlock for a few weeks while he regained his strength.

John had returned to the front lines, as a former Army doctor would do, as Sherlock had expected. What he had not expected was being sent back to the annexe at Musgrave Court after days of strident argument with his brother and John. He was there alone this time, Mycroft away on government business, Sophie making his meals, a live-in nurse to see to his needs. The only silver linings he could find in those lonely days were his trips outside around the grounds with Arthur in the April sunshine, the daily calls and texts from John, and the video chats with Lestrade at crime scenes. They'd even shared a beer after one case, virtually of course. The rest was _hateful_.

Mycroft had not escaped unscathed. If John's lungs had felt raw for weeks, Mycroft's had for months. He'd not been forthcoming about where or when he'd likely picked it up, but they all knew the British Government was in a different country every other week. Mycroft had needed extended treatment in ITU, but had kept everyone rather in the dark about where, giving them all the barest and most cryptic updates to let them know he was still alive, worrying them terribly. John supposed Mycroft's mild hypertension had made his case worse, but now he was recovered and presumed immune as well.

Now that would all be behind them. The ones they'd lost - John's coworkers, friends, neighbors - all forever intertwined with the memories of these surreal and dangerous times.

Sherlock startles John back to the present by worming a hand into his pocket, provoking a faint but expected grin. He hadn't meant to take a tone with him, it was just so much to think that this was coming to an end.

"It's okay," Sherlock says, seeing John's thoughts plainly written on his features. "We're okay."

**Author's Note:**

> With love, from California.


End file.
